


Bridge Night

by Pink_Dalek



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 03:31:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_Dalek/pseuds/Pink_Dalek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In "Girl," Bright complains to Fred that having to deal with Morse arresting the wrong gas man ruined his wife's bridge night. I wanted to challenge myself by writing sympathetically about an (to me, at least) unsympathetic figure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bridge Night

**Author's Note:**

> I followed Roger Allam to _Endeavour_ from _Cabin Pressure_ and I just about died when Bright turned up, a fussy little man who's always in his uniform--with decorations-- and A Hat. It's probably the only reason I can feel a bit of sympathy for Bright.

The Bright household was in a stir. Tuesday night was bridge night. Flora Bright loved the game, and even before they'd moved to Oxford she'd found a bridge club with an opening and signed them both up for it. Reginald Bright had learned during thirty-two years of marriage that sometimes it was easier, and quieter, to keep out of her way.

He was setting up folding card tables in the lounge, which was separated from the dining room by a broad archway. Once their children had grown up and left home, they'd replaced the big table with a square one that was also pressed into service, pushed to one end of the room so yet another card table could be squeezed in, half in the archway. This was their first time hosting their new club and Mrs. Bright wanted everything to be perfect. Flora was moving about in her flowered dress and pearls, putting out bowls of nibbles on the tables and setting up the tea service on the sideboard. The others would bring finger foods to add to the sideboard.

"Have you changed your shirt yet?" 

"Not yet." He'd pushed the sofa and armchairs to the edges of the lounge before setting up tables and chairs. "Just finishing up with the tables, dear."

"Well hurry up. You need a fresh shirt before everyone arrives. And leave that alone!" she scolded, catching him taking a handful from one of the bowls. "You've had supper, you can wait for everyone."

"Yes, dear." He slunk upstairs to change out of the shirt he'd been wearing all day and shifting furniture in.

He was tired of bridge. He'd love to have a poker night with his mates, even if they were only betting shillings. But he'd never really had mates since he'd finished school, just co-workers and neighbors. The sort of hearty, casual manner men seemed to have around each other had always eluded him. Plus he'd been busy climbing the ladder at work, and that had required multiple transfers over the years. It had been easier to meet people after moving house when the kids were still at home, bringing friends home whose parents followed them to check out the new neighbors.

Nine couples started arriving, wives bearing dishes to place on the sideboard. Bright tuned the radio to something suitable for background music then circulated, making sure everyone had something to drink while they visited. He had tried to find bridge players at the station, but the few who played were already in clubs. He'd hoped Fred Thursday would be interested, as he liked the DI and wanted to make friends, but Fred said he and Win hadn't played in years and weren't looking to take it up again.

Everyone got their drinks and nibbles and took their places at the tables. The games had been going on for nearly an hour when the phone rang.

"Who could that be?" Flora asked sharply, looking across the little table at her husband. "Everyone knows we have bridge tonight."

Reginald shrugged, apologized to the other couple at their table, and went to answer the phone in the hall.

"Bright residence."

"Sir, it's PC Wells, the custody officer for the evening. I hate to disturb you at home, sir, but we have a problem."

"What sort of a problem?"

"It's about the gas meter thief. One of the officers nicked someone he thought was the thief, no ID or anything. It seemed a reasonable assumption, sir. Bloke said his ID was in his other trousers, and the constable called the gas board's after-hours line but they had no record of him."

"Yes?" Bright tried to hurry the man along. Flora was glaring at him from the table. "So what's the problem?"

"Well, the bloke used his one call to ring his boss, and now there's someone from the gas board on the other line. Seems he really was a new hire whose paperwork hadn't finished going through yet."

"Have you released him?"

"Just sent a constable to do that now sir, after verifying that the caller really is from the gas board."

"Good. So what's the problem?"

"Chap with the gas board's in a right state, sir. Wants to talk to the big boss. Shout at more like. He's threatening to call the chief constable, and I can't put him off."

Bright tried to give Flora an apologetic look. He sighed. "Give him this number; I'll talk to him."

"Yes, sir."

He hadn't wanted to play bridge, but this wasn't what he'd had in mind instead. Especially since it meant Flora couldn't play. She would not be happy. "Which officer was it brought in the wrong man?"

He could hear the rustle of paper as the custody officer checked the file. "DC Morse, sir."

Bright sighed. Thursday's little protege. "Thank you, Wells." As he waited for the inevitable call, he returned to the game he'd interrupted. "I'm so sorry. Bit of a contretemps at the station. Requires the chief's touch, I'm afraid." Despite the stress, he couldn't resist a bit of preening at the fact that he was the chief now.

"The hazards of being in charge," the other man at his table said understandingly. "The buck, as the Americans call it, has to stop somewhere."

Flora followed him out to the hall. "How long is this going to take?"

"I don't know. Feathers have been ruffled, dear. It's up to me to smooth them down." 

"Isn't there someone else to do it?"

"I'm afraid not."

"But how are we supposed to have our game with one person missing?"

"It probably won't take that long."

Flora busied herself making sure everyone had more drinks and food. The other couple didn't seem too bothered by the interruption. The phone rang again. Bright was waiting next to it.

With the first words out of the caller's mouth, he knew this wasn't going to be a brief call. He did his best to soothe, realizing ironically that this had been one of the people pushing to make the meter thefts a top priority. He sank down onto the little chair beside the phone table, getting progressively more upset with DC Morse as he was berated. It was an amateur mistake; a second call to a special number available to the police would have revealed the truth of the meter man's employment. Then again, a new hire should have been doubly careful to have his identification with him, especially with an impostor on the loose. He couldn't shout at the meter man who'd erred, but he would certainly make his displeasure with Morse known first thing in the morning.

Flora came out periodically to glare at him and hiss, "are you finished yet?" Fortunately one of the other women had the idea for people to trade off so Flora and the couple they'd been paired with could play, which mollified her somewhat. The only person who really seemed upset was Flora. Bright's stomach was in knots.

The man from the gas board finally seemed to have shouted himself out. Bright gave him one last apology before they both rang off. When he returned to the lounge, the man who was currently sitting out a game took one look and led him over to the liquor cabinet. "You look like you could do with a nip. What's your poison?" Flora was fortunately in the middle of a game, too busy strategizing to glower at him.

"Scotch, please." The man-- Tom, he remembered-- poured two fingers' worth of amber liquid in a glass and handed it to him. "Thank you."

Tom shook his head. "That's why I've stayed out of upper management," he admitted wryly.

With Bright returned, all of the players could be involved again. Tom looked a little regretful when he was called back to the game. Bridge continued for another hour, then everyone started collecting coats and dishes and the folding tables and chairs they'd dropped off over the weekend. "Miles, Daphne, when would be a good time for Reginald to drop off our table and chairs at yours for next week?" Flora asked the couple hosting the next game.

"Any time Sunday after church should be fine," Daphne told her as Miles hauled their table and chairs out to their car. "It was lovely, Flora. Look forward to having it here again."

When the house was quiet again, Flora cleared the dishes and started doing the washing up. Reginald put away their card table and chairs and shoved the furniture back into place, making sure table legs and sofa and armchair feet were returned precisely to the dents already developing in the carpet. Normally his wife would talk about the party, reveling in her success as a hostess. Now she was ominously silent. Bright wondered if he should just go ahead and plan to sleep in the guest room.

Finally he braved the kitchen, joining her to help dry things and put them away, having to dither a bit when he couldn't remember where some items went in a kitchen they'd only been using for a week. "I _am_ sorry about the game," he hazarded cautiously. 

"Can't they leave you alone on the one night we have plans?" 

"You know that's not how it works. No one seemed to mind. They were all quite understanding, I thought." 

"Well of course they were, to our faces. Who knows what they'll say about us later. I hope it doesn't jeopardize our place in the club." 

_It's only a game,_ he wanted to say. _It's supposed to be relaxing._ "Should I sleep in the guest room?" 

"Oh Reginald, don't pull that pathetic look with me. I'm not in the mood. You don't have to sleep in the guest room." She permitted him a peck on the cheek before going upstairs to prepare for bed. 

Bright remained standing there, wondering what the strange little serving piece was that he was holding, and where in this unfamiliar kitchen it went. 


End file.
